“Any advice?”
He doesn’t even look at me as he says, “None that I can give.”
“Worth a shot,” I mutter, and I swear the corner of his mouth kicks up before the door creaks inward and he steps inside the room, shutting me out.
Well.
I frown, looking around, turning my attention to a large sketchbook laying open on a table. I flip through its moth-eaten pages, unable to decipher the scrawled notes written along the edges in a different language, but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying the illustrations of various animals and creatures scratched across the parchment.
The door creaks again, and I drop the page, spinning.
Gasping.
My chest thumps so hard every beat feels like another stone lumped upon it, threatening to collapse my ribs from the crushing weight.
The figure standing in the open doorway looks to have just stepped off the wall in Whispers. I see no skin. No features. No feet.
All I see is therobe—the same gray robe I’ve seen so many times.
Toomany times.
A meek sound boils in the back of my throat.
Get out of the way, kid. Mercy is not preserved for those who stand against the stones.
The memory strikes like a blade to the back of my knees, hand shooting out to steady myself against the table in a feeble attempt to quell this deep-seated swirl whisking me up inside.
“The future High Mistress, I presume?”
His abrasive voice only strengthens my belief that this man spawned straight from my nightmares. I almost expect him to push his hood back and reveal a bald, shiny head; for me to look down and see a blood-stained axe hanging from his hand.
Drip.
Drip.
The insides of my cheeks tingle, the space under my tongue pooling with the evidence of my cramping guts.
My foot begins to slide back—
Kolden steps past the man, wearing a frown that bolts me in place, looking between us both. “Orlaith, this is Elder Creed.” A pause, then, “He’s going to lead you to The Bowl so you can begin practice for the trial.”
Though the Elder’s face is hidden within the shadow of his hood, I can feel the reckoning sweep of his eyes up and down my body.
Is he seeing the slithering sizzle tucked beneath my skin?
Is he seeing just howunworthyI am?
Elder Creed connects his hands, scooped sleeves overlapping as his head tilts to the side. “Is she …mute?”
His voice is a thorn in my chest. Like he’s blistered and boiled beneath that hood, speaking to me from beyond the grave I put him in.
Murderer.
“Orlaith? Are you okay?”
I can’t bring myself to answer Kolden. Can’t bring myself to breathe or even blink. All I want to do is stand right here until Elder Creed disappears back through that door.
Kolden’s frown deepens, and he steps closer, his hand brushing against my elbow as concern shadows his eyes.
